'y, 




Class JP5:5_5JJ_ 

COPffilGHT DEPOSm 



KING OF THE AIR 

and other poems by 

ELIZABETH CHANDLEE FORMAN 




/ VaRTI er V6RITATI j ft 



BOSTON 

RICHARD G, BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 



Copyright, 1919, by Elizabeth Chandlee Forman 



All Rights Reserved 



The Three Lads appeared in the London Nation, 
Missing in The Forum, Cadorna's Retreat in New York 
Times, Sea of Pearl in Bryn Mawr Alumnce Quarterly, 
and To William L. Price, Architect in Philadelphia 
Public Ledger. They are here reproduced through the 
courtesy of these publishers. 



Made in the United States of America 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U.S.A. 
©CI.A525664 



THIS LITTLE BOOK I OWE IN GRATITUDE 

TO THE INSPIRATION OF TWO 

WHO LOVED TRUTH AND CHERISHED BEAUTY: 

MY PARENTS 

DR. HENRY CHANDLEE 
ANNA BETTERTON CHANDLEE 

OF BALTIMORE, MARYLAND 



CONTENTS 

POEMS OF THE GREAT WAR 

PAGE 

King of the Air 9 

The Three Lads . . . . . . . . 11 

Missing 12 

Marching 13 

Song: ** Soft Wind, Sweet Wind " . . 15 

The Battalion of Death 16 

/ Cari Morti 18 

" When the Peace-Bells Ring "... 20 

Cadorna's Retreat 21 

Mother and Child 22 

The Doves of Venice 24 

In Dover Town . 26 

MoNCHY — Cambrai — St. Quentin — La 

Fere 28 

Butterfly 29 

Field Grey 30 

Gates of Amiens 32 

Victors! 34 

The Turn of the Tide 36 

Crossing 38 

The Blue Star and the Gold .... 39 
5 



Contents 



His Last Flight 40 

The Bells of Victory 42 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Song of the Mermaids and Mermen . . 47 

A Child's Fancy 48 

Sea of Pearl 49 

Joy 51 

Indian Boat-Song 52 

Song: "The Sun is Striding Through 

the Sky " 53 

The Old Wind 54 

" Not Death That Most Men Dread I 

Fear " 56 

The Voice in the Fog 57 

" Out of the Years and the Rain " . .59 

Calm 60 

To William L. Price, Architect ... 61 

Morning 63- 

Firelight 64 

In Camp 65 

Moonlight 66 

Song: " Thou Art the Virile Mountain 

Stream " 68 

The Little Grey Lane 69 

Sonnet 70 

One Boy Less 71 

6 



Contents 

PAGE 

The Ships of Yesterday 72 

Song: ** My Love is Dear to Me " . . 74 

The River 75 

To Henry 76 

" When the Roses Are Dead " . . . .78 

PROSE 

The Old Vase 81 

The Child in the Garden 82 

A Soliloquy 85 

A Storm 87 

A Masked Ball 88 

My Childhood 90 

A Farm 91 

A Memory 93 

Death in the House 95 

The Message of a Day 97 

The Wolf (A Christmas Tale) . . . 100 

The Moor-Birds 105 

France to the Rescue (A True Story of 

THE Sea) 112 



POEMS OF THE GREAT WAR 



KING OF THE AIR 

/ To Lieutenant Horace B. Forraan 3rd, \ 
^U. S. Aviation Service, A.E.F., France/ 

Up and away, from behind those headlands green, 

He sails his ship in the sky! 
Steady and keen and true, with majestic mien 

He sweeps through reaches high. 
Now he floats on wide, still wings, now dips, 

And drops like a falling star, 
Only to soar again to the highest tips 

Of mountain peaks afar. 

King of the air is he — and his royal train 

The crimson clouds of dawn. 
For an instant he's lost in a purple fringe of rain, 

Into a gold mist gone. 
His bright cloud-hosts salute him with fire and 
thunder 

As they march in review through the sky. 
So that the humble earth-folk tremble and wonder 

At the clamor and glory on high. 

The winds are his trumpeters, sounding over the seas 

Their clarions loud and clear. 
At his crossing, the great waves chant wild har- 
monies 
For his listening soul to hear. 
He shames the birds of the land in daring and grace, 

And the swift-winged gulls of the sea. 
In splendid heights he rides with the sun face to 
face. 
A strong, bold king is he ! 
9 



King of the Air 



King of the air? — Nay, king of the world is he! 

Unbound by the narrow land 
He swings through broad, free spaces. The tyran- 
nous sea 

Holds not with her iron hand. 
And his joy is greater than anything under the skies 

Felt since life began — 
For he joins to the passionate heart of the bird that 
flies. 

The thinking soul of a man. 



Siasc onset, Mass., 5 August, igi8. 



10 



THE THREE LADS 

Down the road rides a German lad, 

Into the distance grey. 
Straight towards the north as a bullet flies, 
The dusky north with its cold sad skies ; 
But the song that he sings is merry and glad, 

For he's off to the war and away. 
*' Then hey! for our righteous king! " (he cries) 
" And the good old God in his good old skies ! 
And ho ! for love and a pair of blue eyes — 

For I'm off to the war and away! " 

Down the road rides a Russian lad, 

Into the distance grey. 
Out towards the glare of the steppes he spurs, 
And he hears the wolves in the southern firs; 
But the song that he sings is blithe and glad, 

For he's off to the war and away. 
" Then hey! for our noble tzar! " (he cries) 
" And liberty that never dies ! 
And ho ! for love and a pair of blue eyes — 

For I'm off to the war and away! " 

Down the road rides an English lad, 

Into the distance grey. 
Through the murk and fog of the river's breath. 
Through the dank dark night he rides to his death ; 
But the song that he sings is gay and glad, 

For he's off to the war and away. 
*' Then hey! for our honest king! " (he cries) 
"And hey! for truth, and down with lies! 
And ho ! for love and a pair of blue eyes — 

For I'm off to the war and away! " 

March, IQIS, Baltimore, Md. 
II 



MISSING 

(In memory of Emilio Delvivo, an officer in the Italian 
army, who died in the Trentino, February, 1916, for his 
country. He was just twenty-two years old.) 

So, it's your turn to go, soldier, my soldier? 

" Missing," just '' missing," the newspapers say. 
Who now will cherish the poor, grey-haired mother, 

Soldier, my soldier, so far away? 

There you lie out on the cold, wind-swept mountain- 
side, 
Lost in a lonely grave under the snow ; 
Just like the other lads killed for their country's 
sake! 
God called your name, too — you had to go. 

Dear little son of mine, soldier, my soldier. 

Such round, red cheeks you had, dimpled and gay! 

Soft little smiling babe close to my bosom pressed. 
What warmth of life was yours — just yesterday! 

The world will forget you, soldier, my soldier. 
How nobly you served and how bravely you died ; 

Only the angels in heav'n will remember — 

And mother — dear soldier, with love and with 
pride. 

March, 1916, Haverford, Pa. 
12 



MARCHING 

There's a marching through the night, 

There's a ring of many feet; 
There's a sense of quiet might 

Felt along the pulsing street. 
And through pulsing street and lane — 

While our aching hearts are dumb — 
Keeping time to beating rain, 
Echo fife and drum. 

There's a marching through the day. 
There's a tramp of steady feet: 

Boys — yours and mine — so gay, 
Bravely march their death to meet. 

Death — with victory so dear — 
Will be theirs ere set of sun. 

Bugles, ring the triumph clear, 
Battle to be won! 

There's a marching through the night. 
There's a press of many feet: 

Back-tide of the storm and fight 
Solemnly doth throb and beat. 

Throb and beat and vast recoil 

Racks the whole world's tortured breast. 

We, the women, sweat and toil — 
But our soldiers rest. 



13 



King of the Air 



There's a marching through the day, 
There's a tramp of weary feet : 

Little children, through the grey. 
Dragging on in cold and heat. . . 

Victory! Sound, drum and fife! 
Trumpets proud, peal every one! 

We have given the best in life 
That a cause be won ! 



25 July, 1916, Siasconset, Nantucket. 



14 



SONG: "SOFT WIND, SWEET WIND" 

Soft wind, sweet wind, with the scent of red wild 
rose, 
Blowing swift across the heather, friend to wel- 
come me — 
See! my hands are empty of the blossoms bright I 
used to toss, 
And my heart is not for playing by the singing 
sea. 

Soft wind, sweet wind, there's another field I know, 
Where the flowers are crushed, and there are sad, 
dread things to see. . . . 
When another summer sun flushes all the moor with 
bloom. 
Blow my soldier safely home across the singing 
sea. 

8 July, 1917, Siasconset, Nantucket. 



15 



THE BATTALION OF DEATH 

The Russian hosts are fleeing before their mighty 

foe! 
They are scattered, lost and helpless, like wild, 

wind-driven snow, 
And the German guns are bellowing behind them as 

they go. 

In vain the Russian cannon let forth a roar of scorn. 
And pour their death into those traitorous, broken 

ranks forlorn ; 
No power can stem their mad retreat, or bind vast 

armies torn. 

The citadel is taken without a show of fight. 
And the Germans throng the city. There'll be 

revelry tonight. 
And they'll cheer the Russian armies for their das- 
tard, sorry flight! 

Then in the night the fortress-watch, half drowsing, 

is aware 
Of rumbling of swift hoof-beats, of a sudden 

trumpet's blare; 
And the great bell peals alarum, bugles call and 

torches flare. 



i6 



King of the Air 



There's crash of hoofs upon the stones across the 

city square ! 
There's fighting demon-wild tonight — shrill cries 

upon the air; 
And many a drunken Hun is slain on threshold, 

bed and stair. 

But those who worked this havoc are lying still and 

dead, 
Their slender limbs all twisted, their white breasts 

stained with red, 
A crown of dusty clotted hair upon each comely 

head. 

The women's " Death Battalion " has come to wipe 

away 
The disgrace of Russia's armies, the shame of this 

ill day. 
And saints look down, all reverent ; and men look up 

and pray. 

For many a noble spirit from home and hearthstone 

warm, 
Sweet maid and wife and mother — each well-loved, 

gentle form, 
For pride of race — for Russia — lies dead in the 

night and storm. 

O Russia's mighty armies, now turn and make a 

stand ! 
A new day floods the sky with gold and brightens 

your dark land. 
Be men, for love of Russia — and this brave little 

band! 

August, 1917, River St. Lawrence. 
17 



/ CARI MORTn 

Far away over the wide, wide sea 

There's a village small I know, 
Beside a lake in a quiet vale 

Where storm-winds never blow; 

For a fortress strong girds it about 

With rocky peak and scaur. 
The smooth lake lies in silence deep 

And hears no din of war. 

Upon each steep and terraced slope 

Shine out the plots of green; 
While far aloft against the blue 

The black milch-goats are seen. 

The long lake glimmers, and the firs 
Stand watching, straight and still. 

The mountain torrents rush along 
To turn the droning mill. 

It is a peaceful, homely scene 

When dark-blue shadows fall. 
And the mill-wheel stops, and the goats file home 

At the goat-girl's wild, clear call. 

1 " The Dear Dead." In a little village of the Trentino, 
a church-bell tolls every night, and the peasants say "per 
i can morti." 



i8 



King of the Air 



From mountain pastures up above, 

With loads of fresh-mown hay 
The dogs drag down their wooden sleds. 

Rough children shout and play. 

There's a clatter of clogs on the noisy stones 

To the chapel in the square, 
Where grey walls echo an old priest's chant. 

And vapors scent the air. 

Down drops the dark and the lights go out 

Like sleepy eyes that close. 
The town and the lake and the guarding crags 

Are locked in deep repose. 

But suddenly the still night wakes 

At the call of a deep, slow bell. 
That beats the air with solemn strokes: 

It tolls the dead men's knell. 

It calls and calls to the dear, lost dead. 

It clamors in wild, wild pain. 
Its dirge peals out across the lake, 

And the hills sob back again. 

It mourns and mourns for the dear, lost dead — 

Do the living people heed? — 
It prays for the men who still must die, — 

For the wounded, in their need. 

That little village far away 

Where storm-winds never blow, 
Has its own throb of bitter pain, 

Its share of the great world's woe. 

August, 1917, River St. Lawrence. 
19 



" WHEN THE PEACE-BELLS RING " 

Do you mind the cottage, brother, 

Where the mother raised us boys, 
And October chestnuts roasting, 

And the simple, homely joys? 
You'll be tramping back, my brother, 

At the calling of the spring. 
And right glad will be your welcome home - 

When the peace-bells ring. 

Do you mind the little village 

From the top of our big hill 
In the damp, sweet summer evenings 

When the fields are dim and still, 
And the lights of home are shining. 

And the sleepy crickets sing? 
You'll see them all again, brother — 

When the peace-bells ring. 

Do you mind how Joan and Mary 

Waved us both a brave goodbye? 
And the pretty flowers they gave us. 

And the bright blue morning sky? 
You'll be marching back to greet them 

At the calling of the spring. . . . 
But I'll be on a far, far road — 

When the peace-bells ring. 

/ October, 1917, Haver ford, Pa. 
20 



CADORNA'S RETREAT 

Cold and weary, with sick, dazed brains, 
Lashed and numbed by freezing rains, 
Fiercely pressed by the German bands — 
And little to fight with but poor, bare hands — ■ 
Italy's armies, crazed with pain. 
Run for their lives on the Lombard plain! 

Only a little time ago 
They scaled vast heights of frozen snow, 
Their stout hearts braved Iced peak and crest, 
Their arms were reaching towards Trieste. 
Strong souls, they strove with might and main — 
But now they die on the Lombard plain! 

What men could do, they did. But they 
Were flesh and blood. Their lips were grey 
With deadly cold. They had prayed in need 
For guns — more guns — but who gave heed ? 
They had called to friends for help In vain — 
So they fought with their hands on the Lombard 
plain. 

Great-hearted lads of Italy's lands. 

Doing 5^our best with your plucky hands, 

Hammered and bent by a brutal foe — 

We hail you heroes, wherever you go, 

And the world with plaudits will ring again 

When you make your stand on the Lombard plain! 

30 October, 1917, Haver ford. Pa. 
21 



MOTHER AND CHILD 

" Mother, I see your face again, 

And your hair shines white by the lamp ! ' 

*' Son, I dream thou liest in pain 

Through the night and the bitter damp ! " 

" Mother, why are your brown locks gone, 
And the smile in your clear, kind eyes? " 

" Son, I dream thou diest alone 
In a stark field under the skies! " 

" Mother, I'm like a child that's lost — 

I fear the wind in the cloud ! " 
*' Son, I dream that the fine grey frost 

Covers thee close in a shroud." 

" Mother, there's a wolf in the muttering pines, 
And a great bird circles above! " 

" Son, I dream of the moonflower vines 
On the eve when I first knew love." 

" Mother, there's pain, O Mother, there's pain! 

Help me, angels of grace! " 
'* Son, I dream of my soul's rich gain. 

And the sun on thy new-born face." 



22 



King of the Air 



" Mother, O mother, I see a light, 
And you in a dress of gold ! " 

" Son, in Paradise this night 
Thee in my arms I'll fold." 

" Mother, I hear a singing voice, 

A melody sweet and wild! " 
" Son, it is time — thy hand — rejoice! " 

(The mother folds her child.) 

November, 1917, Haverford, Pa. 



23 



THE DOVES OF VENICE 

In simple majesty it stands — the church of good 
Saint Mark! 
Bronze roof and gilded minaret shine by the 
watching moon; 
But on the silent water-ways the palaces are dark: 
Their empty windows dully stare into the waste 
lagoon. 

The bare Piazza echoes with the sobbing of the 
tide. 
The lordly house of all the Doges waits, serene 
and proud. 
The ancient Orologio looks calmly down beside 
The old church-wall; but through its arch there 
flows no merry crowd. 

And do we think of other times, when all the stately 
square 
Would ring with music when the band played 
waltz or barcarolle. 
And we would sit at Florian's, and dream, and 
linger there ? — 
The moon about San Marco's dome would 
wreathe an aureole. 



24 



King of the Air 



And can we still remember the doves — their happy 
flight 
From windy Campanile and shadowy recess? — 
They flashed like messengers of joy across the 
summer night 
To bring fresh hope to tired hearts, to comfort 
and to bless. 

And still they flit serenely from dome to belfry- 
tower. 
They do not heed the sound of guns, the tramp 
of marching men. 
From spires aloft their watch they keep, and see the 
storm-clouds lower 
With fearless eyes, with faith supreme, unknow- 
ing sin or pain. 

O faithful doves, at some wild dawn where shelter 
could you find ? 
Men's violence would wound your tender hearts, 
your gentle eyes! . . . 
They do not fear, they only trust; their thoughts are 
always kind — 
And they shall eat from angels' hands in peaceful 
Paradise ! 

May, igi8, Haverford, Pa. 



25 



IN DOVER TOWN 

(March 21, 1918) 

There's a wild gust sweeping through Dover town ! 
It bellows and shrieks over meadow and down. 
It tears the blossoming fronds of the trees, 
It sears the flowers and kills the bees. 
Swarming storm-clouds mutter and frown — 
And a fierce gale leaps through Dover town. 

Doors and windows clatter and shake. 
A great fight's forw^ard, the Huns are awake! 
Reverberations of man-made thunder 
Fill shuddering earth and sea with wonder. 
Mists of battle come scudding down 
On the throbbing walls of Dover town. 

Off to the east where thunder crashes, 
The sea is lit with scarlet flashes. 
Those red streaks threading the smoky pall 
Mark where our brave lads fight — and fall. 
Across the trembling tides of brown 
The war-fires flicker on Dover town. 



26 



King of the Air 



Down on the quays pale women wait 

Silently at the grim sea's gate. 

With eager eyes they search the grey 

For the first dim ship from over the way 

That shall bring them back, as night steals down, 

What once were men — to Dover town. 

Ah, youth ! in the scorching flame of guns, 
Matching your skill with the might of the Huns, 
Testing your mettle and power and nerve, 
Giving up body and spirit, to serve — 
You have baffled praise, you have shamed re- 



nown 



Then fling out brave banners, O Dover town! 
March, 1918, Haverford, Pa. 



27 



MONXHV — CAMBIL-\I — 5T. QUENTIN 
— LA FERE 

(Palm Sunday, March 24, 19 18) 

Even this awful hour must have an ending. 

Even those iron frames must falter, fail. 
A mightier hand than theirs will clasp and hold 
them. 

And nature will prevail. 

The thunder of their cannon shakes the ages — 
A thousand thousand belch their scorching 
breath — 

But on the seared field brother calls to brother, 
And foe is friend in death. 

The golden dawn will brighten their dark meadows, 
The pitting spring will smooth their scarred 
plain. 
And nature's yearning heart will ease, with blos- 
soms. 
The memor}- of their pain ; 

And in some happier age. this agony 

Of earth and beast and man, this battle old. 

Will seem, to children by the fireside playing, 
A story that is told: 

A ston' of great deeds and valiant peoples, 

An epic where our noblest live again, 
A glad and might}* hymn that sings forever 
Their joy — without their pain. 

March, 1918, Haz'erford, Pa. 
28 



BUTTERFLY 



Come, little butterfly, out into the sunshine, 

In the yellow sunshine, where the daisies dance ! 
Come and play with me awhile on the smooth 
meadow. 
(Rough and bleak the meadows in far-off 
France ! ) 

Here by this apple-tree (fallen are the blossoms) 
Somebody kissed me — just awhile ago. 

Breezes strewed the pink and white apple-blooms 
about us, 
Tossed the lithe branches gaily to and fro. 

Here by this apple-tree — hark ! pretty butterfly — 
Two strong arms I felt, a warm, warm cheek. 

And a heart that throbbed so wildly — listen, merry 
butterfly ! 
(A grave away in France is far, far to seek!) 

Come, little butterfly, out into the sunshine. 

In the yellow sunshine, while the summer lasts. 
Soon comes bitter cold, and long nights, and widow- 
hood. . . . 
Come and play with me awhile before the winter- 
blasts ! 

March, iQi8, Haver ford, Pa. 
29 



FIELD GREY 

(25 March, 191 8. Before Amiens and Arras, after five 
days of battle.) 

Field grey, and field grey, 
On, close-packed, they stream all day. 
Mow them down, mow them down. 
Mix them with the earth so brown. 
Scorch them with our flaming guns, 
Target fair — a million Huns ! 
Field grey, and field grey — 
Wither them away! 

Field grey, and field grey. 
Let them hear our shrapnel play ! 
Cut them low, cut them low. 
We treat weeds and Boches so. 
Root them out with sharpest guns, 
Target fair — a million Huns! 
Field grey, and field grey — 
Scatter them away! 

Field grey, and field grey, 
Forward still they pour all day. 
Falling 'neath our gunshots, crying. 
Gasping, sweating, bleeding, dying. 
Bold shock-troops, with fife and drum, 
On and on and on they come; 
Swinging on with tireless feet, 
Light and supple, strong and fleet, 
Bounding on with eager breath, 
Surging on to certain death. 
30 



King of the Air 



Field grey, and field grey, 
Oh, the pity of this day! 
Atoms in a maelstrom wild, 
Hardly more, each, than a child. 
Who can blame them, loyal, strong. 
For a system that's all wrong? 
They are but the helpless tools 
Of a pack of monstrous fools ! 

But we cannot let them pass! 
They must stain the springing grass. 
They, who are the sport of fate, 
Shall not pass — we hold the gate! 
With our banners streaming high, 
We, too, know the way to die ! 

Field grey, and field grey, 
Pressing onward, night and day — 
Mow them down, mow them down, 
Mix them with the earth so brown, 
Stay them with our puissant guns — 
Valiant striplings, boy-Huns! 
Field grey, and field grey. 
Shall not pass this way! 
March, igi8, Haverford, Pa. 



%l 



GATES OF AMIENS 

For the honor of your flag, 

Hold them, gates of Amiens! 
Though your timbers strain and sag, 

Hold them, gates of Amiens! 
Hold them for your country's pride, 
For the heroes who have died, 
And for liberty world-wide — 
Soldier-gates of Amiens! 

Throbbing bars of flesh and blood, 
Hold them, gates of Amiens! 

Now the war-tide is at flood. 
(Hold them, gates of Amiens!) 

Soon their fierce war-lust will fail. 

And their savage hearts will quail. 

Right and courage must prevail — 
Dauntless gates of Amiens! 

Though with unimagined might 
(Hold them, gates of Amiens!) 

They assail you day and night, 
(Hold them, gates of Amiens!) 

And the rivers all run red. 

Choking with their thousands dead — 

Always finer draws fate's thread. 
(Hold them, gates of Amiens!) 



33 



King of the Air 



For your city's steeples, towers, 
Hold them, gates of Amiens ! 
For its fountains and its flowers. 

Hold them, gates of Amiens ! 
For a little child to play 
Safe and joyous on its way — 
Hold them, hold them night and day, 
Gallant gates of Amiens ! 

Welded firm, with nerves of steel, 

Hold them, gates of Amiens ! 
Hearken to the world's appeal! 
Hold them, gates of Amiens ! 
And the glad, exultant bell 
In Time's belfry-tower shall tell 
How you held surpassing well, 
Noble gates of Amiens! 

March, igi8, Haverford, Pa. 



33 



VICTORS! 

(24 June, 1918) 

Hail to the conquerors! Crown them with bay! 
Italy's armies are victors today! 
Stout-hearted, strong-handed, dashing and bold, 
They've driven their foes out of every stronghold. 
They rule the Piave from mountain to sea. 
Then hail to the soldiers of brave Italy! 

Like an avalanche sweeping from mountain to plain. 

The Austrian hordes had assaulted amain! 

But their strong ranks were broken, their units fell 

fast, 
Their legions were bended like trees in a blast. 
Austria's armies, bleeding and blind. 
Whirled and fled like leaves in the wind ! 

Silent, pale Venice, now sing and be glad ! 

The fierce bands are fleeing — no loot have they 

had! 
The pearls on thy bosom shall never be theirs. 
And safe thy white doves shall breathe thy soft airs, 
For the great robber-armies are routed this day. — 
Then call from thy belfries and bid men to pray ! 



34 



King of the Air 



Hail to the conquerors! Crown them with bay! 

Tower, castelloj flaunt banners today! 

Florence, Ravenna, Verona and Rome, 

Make ready to welcome your noble sons home! 

They have won the world's honor from sea to far 

sea. 
Then hail to the heroes of brave Italy! 



26 June, IQ18, Haver ford. Pa. 



35 



THE TURN OF THE TIDE 

(The Great German Retreat, July i8- ) 

The tide that was at flood now turns. 
While breakers toss their crests on high 
And reach out hungry arms, the sky 

With amber dawn-light glows and burns. 

A new day gilds each seething wave. 
The tide has turned. A force unseen 
Presses the charging hosts of green 

That wildly clamor, vainly rave. 

And like this tide, another turns — 
A tide of horses, men and guns. 
Oh, slow and thick the red Marne runs 

Past slimy mosses, clotted ferns. 

Back over ruined meadow, town 

Smirched by its track, the foul tide flows. 

It finds no beauty: each garden rose 
Was long since torn and trampled down. 

It finds no shelter : the homesteads dark 
Stand roofless 'neath a smoke-stained sky 
Where bloated vultures wheel and cry. 

The fields are heaped with corpses stark. 



36 



King of the Air 



Back rolls the tide through the heavy weather 
O'er bodies of boys and dead old men. 
Shuddering, moaning with horror and pain 

The living and dying drift back together. 

Woe and death on the dark crests ride 

As they flood the world. . . . But I dreamed this 

night 
From Heaven there stretched a hand of light 

Which stilled forever the rolling tide. 



31 July, IQ18, Siasconset, Nantucket. 



37 



CROSSING 

All through a summer afternoon 

Strange-tinted troop-ships, seaward bound, 

File past the island light; grim, grey. 
Their convoys press them round. 

They seek no dark, concealing fog 
To hide them on their open way. 

The sky is bright. They feel no dread 
Of those who lurk for prey. 

All through a summer night they pass. 

Sending across the level tide 
Flash following on flash, to show 

How all in safety ride. 

And many and many another night 
They'll swing across the surging deep. 

Tossed by the winds and stormy seas, 
While we in quiet sleep. 

And many and many another night, 
Their hearts unshaken, on they'll go, 

Knowing no fear, with will intent 
To meet a deadlier foe. 

Nor fear must we who watch them stream 

So boldly, gallantly to sea. 
God guides them through the storm and dark 

That cross to set men free. 

Siasconset, Nantucket, Mass., 8 August, igi8. 

38 



THE BLUE STAR AND THE GOLD ^ 

He did not linger and wait 

For his country to see the right! 
He went as a volunteer to France 

When we said it wasn't our fight. 
And into the great war-game, 

Not counting nor heeding the cost, 
He threw the strength of his splendid youth; 

He played with death — and lost ! 

The blue star high in our window 

Is stained and old and dim ; 
We'll make it dazzling-bright today 

With gold — to honor him. 
The years may dull the symbol 

Our eager hands have made — 
But the star of love on the flag of our hearts 

Is gold that cannot fade. 

Hwverford, Pa., 21 October, igiS. 

1 In loving recognition of our son, 
Lieutenant Horace B. Forman 3rd, 
of the U. S. Aviation Service, A.E.F., who for a year 
and a half served as a volunteer with the French and 
American armies abroad. He died in France the four- 
teenth day of September, 191 8, aged twenty-four years. 
In the words of his former French captain (Capitaine 
Robert, Centre d'Instruction des Eleves Aspirants, Issou- 
dun) : " // est tombe en brave au champ d'honneur, pour 
la France." 

39 



HIS LAST FLIGHT 

Up to the azure sky he flew, 

So straight and sure, so swift and true, 

Away, away, 

On wings of grey — 
With a joy we never knew. 



He loved old earth in this autumn-time ; 
But his fine, free spirit bade him climb 

Up and away, 

On wings of grey. 
To a higher air and clime. 

He lived and felt, in one short span, 
All joys that fall to the lot of a man. 

Away, away. 

On wings of grey, 
A gay, wild course he ran! 

And then one day when life flowed strong 

In his bold young heart, with a laugh and a song, 

Away, away. 

On wings of grey, 
He sailed the skies along. 



40 



King of the Air 



Till he came to a gap in the azure bright ; 
He darted through, he sped from sight ! 

Away, away, 

On wings of grey, 
He soared on his last glad flight. 

How full, how rich such life, to fly — 
For a pure ideal — right up to the sky, 

Away, away. 

On wings of grey — 
And gloriously to die! 

25 October, IQ18, Haver ford, Pa. 



41 



THE BELLS OF VICTORY 

In the still, cold night a message came 
That kindled our land to leaping flame: 
" A truce is signed — the fighting's done — • 
The last shot fired — the great war won ! " 
From eastern shore to western sea 
Shout forth the bells of victory ! 

We hear the solemn music break 
From dusky hill and sombre lake, 
Dim way-side chapel, minster tall, 
Dark ships within the harbor-wall : 
The bells proclaim with wild applause 
The winning of a mighty cause! 

Earth trembles, and the shadowy air 
Quivers with volley and trumpet's blare, 
Horn, whistle, siren, bugle, drum! 
We try to cheer — our lips are dumb : 
Too sound they sleep across the sea 
To hear our bells of victory! 

Friend and foe alike they rest 

In shallow ditches, breast to breast. 

Their bloody toil and pain are done; 

They sleep forever — while the sun 

Up-rises on a world new-born 

In peace, this holy autumn morn. 



43 



King of the Air 



We hear afar the thrones crash down — 
Gaunt famine wail from town to town — 
And haughty, ruined nations' cries 
For mercy! — Did they mercy prize? — 
Downward he f alls — the blind, lost Hun: 
No place for him in the golden sun ! 

But for that band that barred the way 

In Belgian fields, one summer day — 

Those peerless troops of France who died — 

Contemptibles, the flower and pride 

Of England — Gallant Italy. . . . 

And those who bridged a vast, strong sea — 

Heroic dead beneath the grass 
Who brought this miracle to pass. 
This first day of a thousand years 
Of peace — we've reverence and tears. 
They gave themselves to make men free : 
Great souls who won this victory! 

A glory lies on autumn hills ! 

The solemn paean swells and thrills! 

Strong winds sweep down November skies 

And on the world a glory lies ; 

While through our hearts peal full and free, 

Transcendent bells of victory ! 

// November, iqi8, Haverford, Pa. 



43 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



SONG OF THE MERMAIDS AND 
MERMEN 

You can hear the breakers booming up above, 
With a dash and crash and roar upon the shore ; 

Oh, the onward, surging, heaving tide we love, 
As it foams along with mighty rush and roar. 

There's a wild and gladsome madness in the waves, 
And the merry dancing combers crested white; 

There's a joy to dive and splash among the caves, 
And to hear the gale a-howling in the night. 

Then we'll swim and leap away through the spray, 
And we'll sport among the wonders of the deep ; 

Up on earth their hearts are sad — but ours are gay, 
For the sea's eternal youth we ever keep ! 



47 



A CHILD'S FANCY 

All around the house it goes; 

It drags its feet across the grass; 
It shakes the panes, it creaks the door — 

Yet I can never see it pass. 
It scrapes and rustles 'gainst the wall ; 

It moves the filmy curtains vs^hite; 
Upon the stair I hear it fall ; 

It slides across the floor at night. 

Yes, all night long it creeps about 

The house — and yet it's not the wind, 
For wind can moan, and it is dumb. 

It gropes and slips — it must be blind. 
Nor is it swish of swirling leaves, 

Or crackle of some old dead bough. 
It's just not anything at all. . . . 

But listen — you can hear it now! 

And all the day it bends and sways 

The hollyhocks beside the wall; 
It mounts the roof with shuffling steps; 

It slams the shutter in the hall. 
Indeed I don't know what it is — 

It isn't dog, or cat, or mouse. . . . 
And I'll be glad when it is gone — 

This thing that goes around the house! 



48 



SEA OF PEARL 

Sea of pearl, with thy rainbow splendor 

Misted over with veils of spray, 
Glimmering sea, all rosy and tender. 

Fresh in the shine of the new spring day, 
Sea of pearl, 
Sea of pearl, 
What dost thou bring to the heart of a girl ? 

"A sparkle of light and a ripple of laughter; 

A sprinkle of foam on the breeze of the spring; 
A little kiss — with a rainbow after — 
A belt of coral, a golden ring. . . . 
Sea of pearl. 
Sea of pearl, 
This do I bring to the heart of a girl." 

Sea of pearl, all grey in the gloaming. 

Flecked with gleams of shimmering light. 
Through thy brightness the dusk is roaming, 
Over thy beauty looms the night. 
Sea of pearl. 
Sea of pearl. 
What dost thou bring to the heart of a girl? 



^49 



King of the Air 



" A shell brimful of tears do I give her ; 

A wreath of dark sea-weeds forlorn ; 
My passionate surge in her breast forever 
The throb of ages yet unborn. . . . 
Sea of pearl, 
Sea of pearl, 
This do I bring to the heart of a girl," 



50! 



JOY 

Joy! for the frolicking wind comes rollicking 

Over the bare, brown hill. 
The dead leaves swirl and dance and whirl ; 
Gay flags of cloud the skies unfurl 

To welcome the morning chill. 

Oh, I am away with joy today 

Beneath the wild, free blue! 
My swift feet run the hills upon, 
And the whole world's filled with the wind and the 
sun, 

The wind and the sun . . . and you! 



51 



INDIAN BOAT-SONG 

Onward rushes the river stream, 

(Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 

Ruddy and wild in the red moon's gleam ; 
Hark! the waves on the rocky shore! 
(Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 

Where is my love, O whither away? 

(Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 
She floats in the marsh-mist curling grey, 

Her voice shrills in the breakers' roar. 

(Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 

My love, she sings in the whistling wind; 

(Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 
Her kiss is sweet, her smile is kind; 

She waits for me when day is o'er. 

(Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 

Across the dark she calls to me ; 

(Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 
Her eyes shine wild from rock and tree; 

Her face gleams white from the river-floor. 

(Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 

I see her near, I feel her breath; 

(Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 
My dearest love, her name is Death. . . . 

Oh, fierce the rapids rush and roar! 

(Row, my brothers, on bending oar!) 
52 



SONG 

I'he sun is striding through the sky — 

And strongly on strides he; 
The warm sweet breezes shout for joy 

And kiss the blossomed tree. 
My sleeping soul awakes again, 

And sings — for love of thee. 

The sky is all ablaze with light ; 

The birds sing shrill with glee; 
The meadows shine with new fresh flowers, 

Bluebell, anemone. 
My quiet heart unfolds anew, 

And blooms — for love of thee. 

The strong sun clasps the tender west; 

The stars steal out to see; 
To rest goes every happy flower. 

Each butterfly and bee. 
Once more my spirit looks to heaven. 

And prays — for love of thee. 



53 



THE OLD WIND 

The wind is gay and strong tonight 

As he sings upon the sea, 
And joins in the merry dance 

Of moonbeams, wild and free. 

In mad caprice he leaps to land 

And runs along the shore. 
Springs up the cliff with lusty shout. 

And darts across the moor. 

He rushes down the village street 
And calls, " Come out with me! " 

He shakes the doors, he raps the panes. 
And tries the folks to see. 

The old-folks gather round the stoves, 
With crutch, footstool and cane; 

They huddle close and whisper, " There's 
That old w^ind home again. 

" We think he's dead and gone — and then 

He's back across the moors, 
And makes our sagging rafters creak, 

And shakes our shrunken doors; 



54 



Kinff of the Air 



" And knocks our tottering chimnej^s down, 
And tears our neat wood-bind, 

And makes our driftwood fires smoke; — 
Away, away, old wind ! " 

The old wind laughs, and slaps the panes, 

And capers in the street; 
Then bounds across the shining moors 

With footsteps light and fleet. 

" Ha, ha! " he jeers, " Then what care I? 

Alone I'll dance and sing. 
But I'll torment those mortals old 

With nip, and pinch, and sting! " 

So through the world he mocking goes — 

But cold and lone goes he ; 
For nothing but the strange old moon 

Dares bear him company. 



55 



' NOT DEATH THAT MOST MEN 
DREAD I FEAR " 

Not death that most men dread I fear, 
But only this: lest the refrain 

That merry waves sing on the shore 
Should never make me smile again; 

Lest the unfolding of the leaves, 
The mist of green on bush and tree, 

Should lose the power to thrill my heart 
With promise of the good to be ; 

Lest, when the moon from summer skies 
Scatters her flowers across the land, 

My pulses should not leap for joy 

Beneath the touch of thy warm hand. 



56 



THE VOICE IN THE FOG 

Faint through the thickening wreaths of mist that 
garland the brilliant brow of the ocean — 
Ocean emerald-blue in the noonday, shining with 
changing, wavering sheen ; 
Faint but clear o'er the foam-strewn tides that 
tremble and heave with eternal motion, 
Steals a strange monotonous murmur — the voice 
of one unknown, unseen. 

On glide the fog-spirits, clouding the radiant noon- 
day, trailing their veils of whiteness, 
Twining and curling across the wide blue fields 
that glow with perpetual bloom ; 
On they come, threading the dazzling gold of the 
noontide's quivering, shimmering brightness, 
Wearing a fabric of pearl and silver, fine mist- 
lace, on ocean's loom. 

Booms the sea with its swing and swirl of heavy 
waves on the unseen beaches ; 
Shrills the cry of the light-winged gull that is 
held in the net of fathomless gloom; 
But clearer ringing, there calls the deep insistent 
voice from the outer reaches 
Of boundless invisible billow and sky that lie 
beneath the fog's soft plume. 



57 



King of the Air 



The wild voice sobs a prayer for the ships that 
proudly pass o'er the treacherous surges; 
It sounds the knell of the mariners floating for- 
ever beneath the lonely tides. 
Steadfastly through the misty spaces, w^arning sea- 
farers — or chanting their dirges — 
The fog-buoy peals his faithful horn as high on 
the crest of the waves he rides. 



58 



" OUT OF THE YEARS AND THE 
RAIN " 

Through the gloom of the brooding shadows, 
Through the cold mists of the night, 

You passed like a gleam of sunshine. 
Filling the room with light. 

Out of the years and the rain 

You came to my hearth again. 

We sat by the fire together 

And talked as good friends do, 
Of books and work and playing. 

Till the sleepy clock chimed two. 
Out of the years and the rain 
You came to my side again. 

You lit the little candle. 

And we climbed the same old stair, 
Your hand in mine, my dearest, 

My cheek against your hair. . . . 
Out of the years and the rain 
You came to my arms again. 

And then, in the joy of loving, 
I woke in the moon's cold beam, 

And heard the night wind sighing. . . . 
And it was just a dream. 

Out of the years and the rain 

You'll never come again ! 



59 



CALM 

The storm of yesterday is past. 

We hear no more 
The wild winds rave, the rude tides crash 

The rocky shore. 

The lucent water, smooth and clear, 

Shows every line 
Of curling fern and sea-carved crag 

And tufted pine. 

That small brown bird on fringed bough 

Of cedar green, 
Dreams silently. In caverns deep, 

Waves lap unseen. 

The slow bee drones ; the locust chants 

Its noonday prayer. 
A faint, far chime of church-bells threads 

The sun-sweet air. 

Warm golden rod in vivid bloom 

On ledges high, 
Glows like a yellow cloud against 

The dark-blue sky. 

Tomorrow's storm is not yet come ; 

This gentle day 
Rests on the sad earth's breast, to charm 

Its grief away. 

60 



TO WILLIAM L. PRICE, ARCHITECT 

We loved you, friend; 
For all the beauty of the budding trees. 
And all the splendor of the autumn leaves 

Were in your breast. 

And now you rest 
In kingly state beneath October's bloom; 
Your tireless weaving on Life's throbbing loom 

Is at an end. 

We loved you, friend ; 
You were the Master-builder, and you knew 
Each line and angle to make strong and true — 

Column and frieze; 

Not lost were these 
In the clear vision of the work complete, 
The dream made real. Yet 'neath pure Beauty's 
feet 

Your art you'd bend. 

We loved you, friend ; 
For first you were a man. In you the tide 
Of life swept to the outer stars; and side 

By side with you 

Walked Love with you. 
To every living creature, great or small, 
Man, woman, little child — you loved us all — 

Your hand you'd lend. 

6i 



King of the Air 



We loved you, friend. 
Do you remember how we've laughed with you, 
And lived and worked with you — and cried with 
you? 

Oh, keep us, dear, 

Still very near; 
And let the lustre of your spirit rare 
Shine in our hearts — and make the world more 
fair. 

We love you, friend! 

October l8, 1916, Haver ford, Pa. 



62 



MORNING 

Up from the sea comes the radiant morning, 

Shining and white through the mists of the night. 

Over her broad breast gleam ripples like jewels. 
Far off, on rip and shoal, foam flashes bright. 

Down on the dunes all the birds wake to greet her. 

Song-sparrow, sea-gull and sand-piper ga}?- 
Make the air tremble with sweet thrills of gladness, 

While mighty waves, like a great organ, play. 

Out on the sea there's a little boat stirring — 
Token of all a man's toil, a man's pain. 

Lonely boat, lost in the mists of the night-tide, 
Comfort and hope morning brings you again! 



63 



FIRELIGHT 

Red gleams of firelight, and tall clock ticking 

slow. . . . 
Through the quiet room soft shadows stealing to 

and fro. . . . 
Pine smoke a-curling in the deep fire-place. . . . 
And the fragrant, blessed warmth flushing all your 

face. . . . 

Cold wind a-sighing in the poplar by the door. . . . 
Merry, elfish, ruby lights twinkling on the 

floor. . . . 
Icy twigs a-shivering against the roof-tree. . . . 
And your smiling, friendly eyes shining back at 

me. . . . 

Through the frosted casement a picture chill and 
white 

Of snowy garden hedgerows and still moon- 
light. ... 

In the dusk the trembling glow of logs that fade — 
and part. . . . 

But a light that cannot die streaming through my 
heart ! 



64 



IN CAMP 

Come, friend — I miss you sore tonight, 

Your merry look, your hand. 
The little crickets cheerily sing, 

And fire-shadows dance in the sand. 

What, never a note from the old violin? 

Now play me a tune, I pray, 
For the small white moon looks lonely and old 

Far up through the marsh-mist grey. 

Come, friend ! My ears are keen, so keen, 

I could hear your eager pace 
From the outermost star on the great highway 

That crosses the hills of space! 

Ah! there's an echo! At last you're here! 

Are you hiding behind that tree. 
Watching me pile the spruce-logs high? . . . 

It's the night-wind answers me. 

That old violin, with its joyous voice. 

Will sing me no songs again ; 
But through my heart light footfalls pass 

Like the whisper of summer rain. 



6s 



MOONLIGHT 

Moonlight through the years, 
Pure and calm and bright, 

Lays her tender hand of peace 
On the yearning night. 

Moonlight on the sea. 

Tranquil, passionless, 
With her white and gentle touch 

Calms its restlessness. 

Moonlight on the shore 
Lulls the windy dunes, 

Charms the little waves to sing 
Quiet, drowsy tunes. 

Moonlight in the streets 
Of some sordid town. 

On each clumsy, crooked spire 
Sets a gleaming crown. 

Moonlight on some poor 

Sleeping beggar old. 
Covers all his squalid rags 

With a coat of gold. 



66 



King of the Air 



Moonlight in the fields 
Where the wounded lie, 

Soothes the anguish of their souls, 
Helping them to die. 

Moonlight on a grave 

Lingering awhile, 
Cheers the cold and lonely fern 

With her friendly smile. 

Moonlight in a heart 

Floods the darkness there. 

Driving forth the bitter shades 
Of an old despair. 

Moonlight through the years, 
Pure and calm and bright. 

Lays her tender hand of peace 
On the yearning night. 



67 



SONG 

Thou art the virile mountain stream 
That surges down to brim the sea. 

For gentle joy of thee I gleam — 
I am the pale anemone. 

Above thy brink I reach to thee. 

Thou leapest past with shout and song 
Thou strainest to the far, bright sea, 

And wilt not bear me, blest, along. 

I cannot follow thy swift way; 

My frail hands v/ave a slow goodbye. 
A little cloud of silver spray 

Clings to me like a memory. 



68 



THE LITTLE GREY LANE 

Back again to the little grey lane, 

In the cool of the night, in the mist and the rain; 

The still little lane that is fast asleep. 

Back to the little grey lane again. 

Over the hill there's a noisy town. 
Burning bright the sun beats down 
On toiling throngs, through long, hot days^ — 
Scorching bright on the weary town. 

The streets are fine with banners gay, 
And flags from towered buildings sway. 
The city throbs with marching feet — 
And slowly onward drags the day. 

Gay sounds the band in the dusty square. 
And hearts are reckless and faces fair 
When the smoking sun burns hot and low. 
The city pants in the sultry air. 

Weariness hides in the city tall ; 
And broken hopes ; and sin ; and gall ; 
And loneliness that sears like the sun. — 
The music trembles over all. 

Back again to the little grey lane. 
To ease the heart of pain, ah! pain; 
The grey little house in the misty street, 
To rest in the quiet, to dream again. 

69 



SONNET 

The singing of the wind that swings the tree, 
And flush of blossoms on an April noon ; 
The shine of jewels that the winter moon 
Strews on the ice-locked lake and snow-rimmed sea; 
Full chords of mating birds' rich minstrelsy — 
Gay-voiced warbler, or wild-throated loon — 
Brought me no joy. My sense to nature's boon 
Slept, till life's tide turned, tossing upward — thee! 
Thine was the smile that quickened my dull heart, 
And thine the word that brought my soul good 

cheer. 
It was thy hand that guided on the w^ays 
Of earnest, happy striving. My weak art 
Is strong through thee. I needs must hold thee 

dear: 
Thy friendship is the zenith of my days! 



70 



ONE BOY LESS 

There's one boy less in the world today ; 

(Oh, lad with the bright, bright eyes!) 
Keen to venture, brave and gay, 
Singing he's left us, he's gone his way. 

(Oh, lad with the bright, bright eyes!) 

There stands the tree he used to climb, 

(Ah, lad with the winsome smile!) 
And its red leaves burn with the autumn-time; 
Its life is long, it's in its prime. 

(Ah, lad with the winsome smile!) 

Here hangs his hat in the closet dim, 

(Oh, lad with the joyous voice!) 
And his glove and his reel and his football trim, 
And his first dress-suit — he was straight and slim. 

(Oh, lad with the joyous voice!) 

And here is the friend he used to love. 

(Ah, lad with the heart of gold!) 
She'll cherish them all — the ball and the glove. 
And the reel — for the sake of the young, sweet 
love. 

(Ah, lad with the heart of gold!) 

There's one boy less in the world today ; 

(Oh, lad with the soul of fire!) 
But there's one heart more to work and play 
And love, in the realms of the far-away. 

(Oh, lad with the soul of fire!) 
71 



THE SHIPS OF YESTERDAY 

I stood upon the lonely shore 
And watched them sail away, 

West-bound, the fair, white-winged ships. 
The ships of yesterday. 

Oh, swiftly sailed the ship of Youth, 

With flaunting colors gay, 
And mirth and music at her helm — 

Mad ship of yesterday! 

The ship of Joy, with sails spread wide. 
Ploughed by with foam and spray. 

While laughter rang from stem to stem — 
Glad ship of yesterday! 

With stately grace careened and skimmed 

Adown the wind-swept bay 
The ship of Beauty, rose-bedecked — 

Proud ship of yesterday. 

And ah ! the ship of Love passed by ; 

With tears I prayed her stay. 
She held her sure and steady course — 

Rare ship of yesterday. 



72 



King of the Air 



But slowly sailed the ship of Hope, 

Into the distance grey; 
She plunged and veered, yet turned not back 

Bright ship of yesterday. 

I stand upon the lonely shore; 

The years go on alway ; 
Far over seas have sped my dreams, 

My ships of yesterday. 

But see ! the eastern sky grows bright, 
And bright the dusky bay. . . . 

They're sailing home around the world — 
Staunch ships of yesterday! 



73 



SONG 

My love is dear to me. 

The golden-rod blooms by the sea ; 

The asters' hue 

Is the sky's own blue — 
But my love's not here to see, 
Oh, my love's not here to see. 

My love, I hold him dear. 
The wind sings sweet and clear 

Its joyous song 

All the day long — 
But my love's not by to hear, 
Oh, my love's not by to hear. 

As slowly round they wheel 
At night the stars reveal. 

All golden-bright. 

Love infinite — 
But my love's not here to feel. 
Oh, my love's not here to feel. 

The tides that swing and sweep. 
Peal sea-chimes slow and deep; 

And bright sea-beams 

Fill all my dreams — 
But my love not here doth sleep, 
Ah, my love not here doth sleep. 

A sun-rise cloud glows high, 
Like a rose, in the pearl-grey sky. 

Till it drifts from view 

In the misty blue. — 
So my love, my dear passed by, 
So my love, my dear passed by. 
74 



THE RIVER 

There's rain upon the river. The clear drops dance 
and sparkle; 
Across the sky the rain-clouds trail their veils of 
misty lace. 
Far down the smoking channel gleams out the 
birches' silver, 
And sleek, bright fishes leap and play upon the 
river's face. 

A gale is on the river. The stinging spray is flying; 
Big purple packs of wind-swelled clouds loom 
grim and dark and low. 
My little boat, close-reefed, skims by like water-bird, 
white-feathered, 
That gaily brushes dashing wave when whistling 
storm-winds blow. 

There's sunshine on the river. The small waves 
laugh and gurgle 
On jagged rock and crooked reef, on black- 
toothed, foaming bar. 
The strong blue current sweeps along through 
windy, sunlit reaches, 
To clasp the radiant yellow sands that glisten 
from afar. 

There's moonlight on the river; and all the broad 
space shimmers 
With ripples smooth of black and gold, with sheen 
of amber light. 
Old thoughts of far-off, happy days come trooping 
back to mingle 
With the fresh breeze on the river and the glory 
of the night. 

75 



TO HENRY 

Little thoughtful son of mine 
With the brown eyes tender, 

Like a young birch straight and tall, 
Shapely, lithe and slender, 

Why dost leave thy games and play 
While the day still lingers, 

Earnestly to scan the sea. 
Holding fast my fingers? 

Just a speck of misty sail 

Tips the rim of ocean; 
Is it pirate, buccaneer. 

Smuggler, " Flying Dutchman " ? 

Hopest thou to see mermaids — 
Silver fins a-gleaming — 

And to hear their sweet, wild chant 
O'er the waters streaming? 

Or is it a deeper thought. 

Born of dusk's commencing: 

Vision bright of ships of gold, 
Past our grosser sensing? 

Child thou art — yet half a man. 
Although still unknowing; 

Canst thou then the future see. 
All the picture growing? 

76 



King of the Air 



We've been friends and playmates gay 
Through the sunny weather; 

And grey twilight settling down 
Finds us still together. 

But the years cast lightly by 

Passionate devotion ; 
In some golden ship I'll sail 

To that greater ocean. 

Some day, looking out to sea, 

By thy side another, 
Kiss her, dear — and I shall know 

That was for thy mother! 



77 



" WHEN THE ROSES ARE DEAD " 

When the roses are dead and the garden is bare, 

And black is the frost, 
And the thin, withered leaves drift away through 
the air. 

And are scattered and lost; 

When the wind blows keen, and love, like a flame, 

Has gone out in the gale. 
And there's no sport left in life's old game, 

And the playing is stale; 

When the music and feasting are over and done, 

And the lights glimmer low, 
And there's not a soul thinks of you under the sun, 

Or cares where you go ; 

Then come to my brown, humble cottage at even: 

There are flowers to tend. . . . 
And the rose-tree blooms to the window of heaven 

In the heart of a friend ! 



78 



PROSE 



THE OLD VASE 

The old East India vase stood upon one end of 
the chest in a corner of the old garret, where it 
had stood for many years. The dust thick upon 
it was gently stirred by the breeze that blew in 
through the open lattice, and the summer sunlight 
streamed brightly into the room. The mice ran 
to and fro inside the walls of the old garret, and 
the door leading downstairs blew backward and for- 
ward on its leather hinges. After a while the mice 
ceased their clatter, and the only sound in the garret 
was the creaking of the door. Everything seemed 
to be watching and waiting for something, and even 
the dust on the vase wore an air of expectancy; for 
a stranger was coming to take the vase far away 
to a strange house in a great city. But the vase 
could not bear to leave its home in the old garret. 

There was a step on the stair and the door stopped 
its creaking to listen. A strong breeze perfumed 
with honey-suckle blew in through the window, and 
seemed to bring sweet memories to the vase, for it 
moved slightly. There was a step outside the door. 
With a shiver the vase fell forward upon the floor, 
and when the stranger pushed open the door, there 
lay before him only the scattered fragments of a 
beautiful vase. 

January, 1895, Baltimore, Md. 
81 



THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 

It has always seemed a strange thing to Rebecca 
that love for the beautiful things in life should 
have grown up in her as a child; for she was not 
by nature observant of external things, being wont 
rather to reflect upon knights and dragons, ogres 
and chimeras — in short, all the folk and fairy-lore 
which her mother used to read to her out of fat, 
gilt-edged volumes, on winter evenings. 

Her childhood was spent in a great city, except 
for a few months each year with her grandmother 
in an old colonial house in the country. These 
summer days were dreamed of by Rebecca all winter 
long; not for the joy that is the essence of summer 
days; merely for favorable opportunities of search- 
ing the heart of the woods for fairy- rings, — or of 
tracking imaginary dragons to their lairs under the 
hay-stacks. 

Of the house where her grandmother lived she 
could have told you little. A tiny room she noticed 
dimly ; — a bed with small colored squares on the 
counterpane ; — big rooms where mirrors twinkled 
in the dusk ; — a neatness and an orderliness all 
about, felt by the child rather than seen ; — and a 
great garden, where she chased butterflies and ran 
races with her shadow. 

Life was passing happily and peacefully enough 
for Rebecca, when one day a strange lady came 
82 



King of the Air 



to the house for a visit. This lady was tall and 
dark, with soft eyes, but interesting to Rebecca in 
only one respect, — as the possessor of an old ac- 
cordion that uttered marvelously sweet and plaintive 
strains. 

From this time the world was changed for 
Rebecca. Fairies and dragons were forgotten, as in 
the twilight she sat in a corner of the porch over- 
looking the garden, drinking in the rare sweetness 
of the melodies the lady played. Often something 
in her throat would swell almost to bursting; and 
once she ran far down the garden, in a passion of 
tears, in a paroxysm of home-sickness, of longing 
never felt before for familiar faces and her mother's 
voice calling her. So always in her mind there 
came to be linked with a certain sweet plaintive- 
ness in music, a bitter pang of longing for well- 
known voices, mingled with an indefinable sense of 
twilight, and stillness, and warm growing things. 

From her corner of the piazza Rebecca could see 
a bit of garden, which she began to notice little by 
little. At first she saw objects only vaguely — 
shrubbery, trees, a turn-stile. Later she grew to 
note the details of the picture, and especially the 
shapes of things: the straightness of the garden 
paths; the roundness of the goose-berries beneath 
the hedge shining in the moonlight ; the fine tracery 
of slender willow-boughs against the sunset. 

Combined with this perception of outline came 
a deep interest in the effects of light and shadow, 
especially light and shadow in their subtile shiftings. 
She saw how objects stood out blindingly, just be- 
fore the setting of the sun; and how at the step 

83 



King of the Air 



of night, soft black shadows fell beneath the flowers ; 
and how, when the moon rose over the garden wall, 
the fluttering poplar leaves were always shifting 
from black to silver and back again. 

So Rebecca grew to love the garden, in its quiet 
moods: in the late misty afternoons; in the purple 
twilights; when thin moonlight fell softly down 
upon the flowers. The accordion-lady was now left 
to herself, while Rebecca explored far down the 
glades and thickets where unseen things sang to- 
gether, to where the yellow pears glittered like gold 
over the garden-wall. She felt how the whole 
garden seemed to beat and throb in a blending of 
many notes ; and gradually above the confused mur- 
murings she could discern distinct sounds : — cries of 
katydids and crickets; croakings of bull-frogs; the 
mournful hooting of a lonely wood-owl. The 
garden came to have a personality of its own, and 
seemed to be endowed with pulsing life. The walks 
and flowers and strong damp scents fell upon her 
sense like music, as sweet as the old accordion could 
play. 

So there were born in the nature of the child two 
great loves: the love for music, and the love for 
the world of trees and flowers. And these two be- 
came so closely intermingled in her mind, that 
through her life a certain glint of light or fall of 
shadow would call up a certain plaintive note of 
the wind ; while distinct images of music, rarely 
sweet, and winding garden paths, were inextricably 
woven about the setting of the blood-red sun and 
the rising of the golden moon. 



February, igo2, Bryn Maivr, Pa. 

84 



A SOLILOQUY 

Never again at dinner shall I drink strong coffee. 
While my neighbors along the corridor are sleeping 
peacefully, I am wide awake, and my thoughts flut- 
ter through my brain like leaves on a windy day. — 
Over in the corner the cold white moonlight shines 
through the curtains, falling In a pale square upon 
the carpet. A tiny ray wanders to the laughing 
marble head of Pan upon the mantel, and glides 
along his delicate, merry features; for an instant 
his lips twitch, his nostrils quiver, his eyes dance 
In the shifting light and shade. — There is a charm 
about that mocking face. What fun It must have 
been to be a faun and to play all day long upon 
one's pipe, and to sing and dance on the moss in 
the green woods, and to pick white and blue violets 
for one's hair; and, at length, all worn out, to 
throw oneself down In the heart of the wood, and 
listening to the wood-pecker's tapping, and the deep 
breathing of the wild hinds behind the thicket, so to 
fall to dreaming. — But, after all, one would soon 
tire of such a life. One would miss the morning 
chapel bell, and basket-ball in the golden after- 
noons, and the excitement of the mail, and the mid- 
night hours of study. — That reminds me that there 

85 



King of the Air 



is a written quiz in philosophy next Monday. 
Heracleitus! Pythagoras! which is which? And 
who was the man who thought our organs and 
members were once all separate and flying through 
space — eyes without sockets and jaws without 
teeth? A hideous conception! 

Sleep, will you never come ? — That mouse — 
hear him! There is no use in his trying to eat a 
hole in the bread-box. But he is not like Par- 
menides, and does not know that nothing 
is real, and that the bread-box and the bread 
within are merely illusions. Happy mouse! — 
Now all is quiet, except for the soft tap-tapping 
against the pane of the ivy-leaves, peering in like 
little heads. — The face of Pan is white and still; 
perhaps he is dreaming of his brother fauns leap- 
ing under the blue skies. — Beautiful, clear skies 
they are — and the grass, so green — and flowers — 
songs of birds — ripplings — a singing wind — I 
really think I am falling — 



igoi, Bryn Maivr, Pa. 



86 



A STORM 

All day long there had come a moaning over the 
harbor bar; and all day long fisher-folk had hurried 
through the streets, anxiously scanning the sky. — 
Now night had fallen, and a stillness hung over the 
old town like a great bird brooding with out- 
stretched wings. 

Faintly up from the sea there rose a kind of 
quivering sob that died away in a whisper. Again 
it rose, less faint, like the soft twitter of half- 
awakened birds. Still again it rose, now grown 
into a human voice, that wailing broke into a shriek. 
Down fell the storm, and with it a thick blackness, 
and the smell of dank sea-weed, and the taste of 
salt water, and a roaring wind. Rain fell that 
turned to hail, and dashed upon the stones with a 
deafening clatter. — Down by the wharves the broad 
waves seethed high, lashing the big piles in fury, 
while against the sky the spray rose like smoke. 
And always the sea-wind sang shrill, through the 
froth and foam. 

Then suddenly back into the sea fled the storm, 
whence it had come; and again stillness fell upon 
the town, save for the far-off clanging of a fog- 
bell, and the booming of the waves on the harbor 
bar. 

igoi, Bryn Maivr, Pa. 

87 



A MASKED BALL 

At first, resting my chin on the rail of the balcony, 
I seemed to be looking down upon a flower-like mass 
of red roses, and blue violets, and white lilies, and 
to be hearing a gentle buzzing like bees in summer. 
Gradually I was able to distinguish different sounds 
' — snatches of melody, laughter, gentle silken swish- 
ings, soft murmurings, chatterings, patterings, 
clickings of high heels on the polished floor. All 
at once there floated upwards the gay music of a 
waltz. The bright blossoms began to move in cir- 
cles, bending, turning, undulating with the rhythmic 
measure, glistening and gorgeous where the yellow 
light fell full upon them, paler and more delicately 
tinted in the purple shadows of the distance. 

They quivered, spun, skipped and whirled, a mass 
of confused forms and mingled colors. For an in- 
stant the yellow lights glinted upon a pink brocaded 
petticoat, a wreath of red roses, long yellow hair; 
then on dancing impish scarlet shapes with horns; 
or on a big black hat and tiny flitting feet; while 
above the music of the waltz rose brayings, and 
crowings, and neighings, and barkings, and screech- 
ings of whistles, and blarings of trumpets, and 



King of the Air 



bowlings of cats. From one corner of the room 
came the faint, pungent odor of Japanese incense 
that rose in grey curls, and the sweet strong smell 
of Turkish tobacco. 

Suddenly the music stopped, and the mass re- 
solved itself into distinct figures: dainty shepherd- 
esses skipping along with a scent about them of 
sweet clover and meadow-grasses; clowns jeering at 
haughty dowager duchesses sweeping by with high- 
arched brows; mischievous flower-girls tossing 
bouquets at quiet brown-hooded monks; pale nuns 
gazing sad-eyed at little red devils. 

Then again the music swelled, and again the room 
was filled with a crowd of quivering, nodding, 
flower-like forms, here gleaming brightly in the 
dazzling glare and glitter of the yellow lights, there 
fading away into the shadows; while over all there 
trembled a light rippling of laughter like waterfalls 
in spring. 



1 90 1, Bryn Maivr, Pa. 



89 



MY CHILDHOOD 

There was a time when summer skies were bluer 
than they are today ; when sea breezes were sweeter 
and fresher; when little white boats bobbed along 
with a jauntier air; when old ladies were all like 
dainty, cracked Dresden china; when to go to Sun- 
day School was the worst of fates, and to the play 
the joy of life; when the birch-switch stood, with 
dreaded yet fascinating possibilities, behind the library 
door; when great-grandfather's clock used to groan 
in the middle of the night, inspiring a delicious sort 
of terror; when green apples flourished in pleasant 
prohibition, and skating at night on thin ice was 
pure delight; when ghosts and phantoms could be 
seen at any time down by the old stone mill, and 
in the silent winter nights the " haunted lady " used 
to wail; when a bar of moonlight was a magic 
girdle, to be shunned, and the green wood was the 
home of elves and pixies and gnomes; when tarts 
were flakier and cakes sweeter and flowers brighter 
and cherries riper, than nowadays; when every old 
man was a wizard in disguise ; when the world was 
a place of vague realities and living dreams, to be 
loved and feared, with uncomprehended shiftings 
and interminglings of golden light and purple 
shadow — such was the far-away time of my child- 
hood. 

igoi, Bryn Mazvr, Pa. 

90 



A FARM 

It is high noon. The low white farm-house, the 
great red barn, the farm-yard and orchards, basking 
in the mellow warmth and misty brightness of the 
Indian summer day, seem half asleep. A puff of 
wind from across the meadows, leaving in its wake 
a faint odor of dank wood-leaves and sodden earth, 
rustles through the tall poplars about the house, and 
sends clouds of brown brush-smoke swirling among 
the tree-trunks. 

Through the deserted farm-yard, with its gates 
and the broad doors of its well-filled granaries and 
store-houses and big red barn standing wide open, 
scurries a company of ducks, waddling in a straight 
yellow line to the horse-trough, where, in the ab- 
sence of the lords of the barn-yard, they swim and 
dive and splash in the gurgling water. 

In the orchard, silent, misty, scented with mellow 
fruitfulness, yellow leaves lie thick on the ground, 
and sometimes a big yellow apple, swollen almost 
to bursting with abundance of rich juice, falls to 
the ground with a soft thud, and lies shining in the 
warm sunshine like an apple of gold. 

91 



King of the Air 



Drowsy murmurs come from over the garden 
wall : a humming of bees, a faint whirring of grass- 
hoppers, a mournful singing of katydids — broken 
at times by the sharp creaking of the garden gate 
on its rusty hinges. A tall yellow sunflower and a 
crowd of scarlet hollyhocks sleepily nodding, blink 
down over the wall at a rabbit with his head 
through a hole in the fence, who wiggles his long 
ears and peers bright-eyed at a bit of cabbage-leaf. 
Suddenly a bush sends down upon his head a crim- 
son shower, and away he scuttles, leaving a mist of 
dust and earth and flying crimson leaves behind 
him. 



Bryn Maivr, Pa., igoi. 



92 



A MEMORY 

As we were driving, suddenly at a bend of the 
road there came to us the smell of heather in full 
bloom, from the distant hills, an odor sweet, dry, 
crisp, spicy and penetrating, that quivered like a 
butterfly on the warm breeze. The blood rushed 
to my cheeks; I leaned forward eagerly drinking 
in the sweetness; and my thoughts flew back ten 
years. 

Again I was in a land of hills and heather — 
heather red, and blue, and brown, and pink, and 
faint yellow, that waved and nodded and fluttered 
without ceasing in the wind blowing up from the 
sea. The glittering sunlight flashed back from the 
bright colors around us as we wandered over the 
rolling moorlands; screaming seagulls flitted over 
the sand-dunes yonder; the little blue pools in the 
hollows of the hills, bluer than the blue sky, laughed 
when the strong salt breeze swept over them, and 
cat-tails on the brink knocked their heads together 
with faint, dainty tappings. — Across the shining 
heather came the muffled ringing of the bell-buoy 
and the noise of great waves beating the hard white 
sand. While up on the clif¥ the light-house stood 

93 



King of the Air 



blindingly white and sharp against the turquoise 
sky. 

Another bend in the road, and the sweet heather- 
scent had vanished. But all day long I seemed to 
breathe it in my nostrils; and all night long my 
dreams were of the heather-blooms and golden lights 
and salt winds and sea-sounds of long ago. 



Bryn Maivr, Pa., igoi. 



94 



DEATH IN THE HOUSE 

Softly the afternoon sunlight streams across the 
wide hall, through blinds low-drawn, warming the 
pale tints of the walls. Quietly it glides from place 
to place, now casting a gleam up the broad stair, 
now lingering lovingly upon a bit of embroidery 
and a little silken bag — a woman's handiwork — 
left forgotten on the old sofa. Back and forth 
through the half-open door the breeze plays, waving 
the light curtains, and whispering in the great 
chimney of the fireplace. 

It is still in the old house, — strangely still. The 
hurrying up and down of yesterday, the voices 
raised, then quickly hushed, the undercurrent of a 
great unrest — all are gone. Even the birds in the 
garden have ceased their chattering. 

For Death is in the house. In the pure, pale 
dawn he came, and gliding up the stair, entered 
gently into an upper chamber where the mistress of 
the house lay in pain. But at his coming she smiled, 
and was at rest. 

Longer grow the shadows in the wide, cool hall. 
The willows outside the half-open door, screening 
95 



King of the Air 



the setting sun, wave their long tendrils of green- 
gold. The sweet evening scents from the garden 
are beginning to enter the house; the calling of katy- 
dids and crickets heralds the coming of night. The 
evening breeze makes music in the waving willows, 
and sings softly through the lonely passages of the 
old house. 

But our beloved is not gone from us. Her voice 
is in the singing wind, her smile is in the radiant 
sky, her dear presence is in the scent of the garden 
roses. She is made one with nature, by whose 
mighty force she is held, in imperishable beauty, near 
us forever. 

January, igio, Ardmore, Pa. 



96 



THE MESSAGE OF A DAY 

Peace on the sea. 

The waves ring gently, like little bells, on the 
shore. 

From south to north the blue tide sweeps past the 
lonely beaches with a slow, steady movement. 

A grey mist veils the far horizon, so that there 
seems to be no boundary between the peace of the 
sky and the peace of the sea. 

Blue-grey sea, grey-blue sky, mingle their soft 
colors. 

Through the far-off haze gleams a faint white 
line of breaking water — waves on an outer bar. 

Rest beside the sea. 

The long green beach-grasses wave in the wind. 

Tall golden-rod swings long yellow plumes. 

Little sprays of yellow bloom lie close to the sandy 
shore as though asleep. 

The sun is warm and comforting and bright, and 
far above the horizon. 

There is time to rest. 
97 



King of the Air 



Love on the sea. 

Love in the sky, on the green dunes with their 
gold. 

Peace, and rest, and love. 

Harmony of time and place; 

Harmony of the sun and the shining shore ; 

Harmony of the chanting waves and the singing 
wind; 

Harmony, which means love. 

Love swelling the trembling bosom of the sea; 

Filling the lithe beach-grasses and giving them 
strength to bend and sway in the strong breeze with- 
out ever breaking; 

Making the golden-rod shine with a splendor 
brighter than gold. 

Love flooding the heart. 

Joy! 

Joy for the peace, and the rest, and the love of 
this summer day. 

Joy that fills and overflows the blue, calm sea 
and the warm, sunny shore. 

And the troops of golden-rod that climb the cliff, 
joyously waving golden banners. 

Joy to rest in the peace of the shimmering sands ; 

To listen to the music of the waves, that sounds 
forever and ever. 

Joy to love. 

There is no room in the heart for despair, or even 
pain, or any wrong. 

Love and joy are supreme — and peace, and rest. 



98 



King of the Air 



Then dreams. 

Dreams of an infinite sea and an infinite sky of 
blue and pearl, 

With a filmy mist blotting out all boundaries of 
space and time, 

And joining ocean and sky forever in one beauty. 

Dreams of peace on land and sea, and in the souls 
of men : eternal peace. 

Dreams of infinite love in all human hearts; and 
after pain, always joy. 

This is the message of one summer day. 



Siasconset, Mass., i6 September, igi8. 



99 



THE WOLF 

(A Christmas Tale) 

It was night in the forest. Heavy clouds cur- 
tained the moon, and a dull light filtered through 
the long avenues of pine and hemlock. Duskily 
glimmered the winter snow, stretching far and deep 
into the secret places of the wood. The tall, sombre 
firs, laden low with weight of snow and sleet, spread 
out long arms like a company of great birds about 
to fly away into the wide, free spaces of the night. 

It was very still in the forest. Not the crunch 
of a wood-creature's footstep, not the sharp snap 
of an icy twig or the gurgle of a stream beneath its 
frozen covering, broke the deep silence. The forest 
was sleeping under the shadowed moon. 

Beyond the forest lay the vast, open steppe, barren 
and drear. Here, oftentimes, the wind would rage, 
and rush along, blowing the snow in clouds, and 
piling up thick, soft, treacherous drifts. All night 
long it would run over the plain, shouting in joy 
if by chance it espied a traveller toiling across the 
steppe. Pitiless it would fall upon him, pitiless as 
the ravenous, snarling wolves lurking in the black 
shadows of the forest. 

lOO 



King of the Air 



But tonight there was no wind howling across the 
desolate steppe. Silence deep as the forest's hush 
lay upon the waste. Dimly the moon shone down 
through its veil of cloud. Dimly shadows — 
shadows of the clouds, perhaps — floated across the 
snow, floated on and on until lost in the forest's 
gloom. 

As the last grey shadow drifted into the wood, 
suddenly, on the thin, clear air rang out a long, 
quavering cry, that rose, and fell, and rose again, 
terrible and wild ! It was the baying of the wolves. 

The baying of the wolves! It struck terror to 
the heart of the man toiling over the steppe. He 
shuddered and crossed himself, clutching tightly 
something in his belt. 

''The wolves!" he muttered, cursing under his 
breath. *' It's death then, from all, man and 
beast! " 

With labor the man ploughed his way through 
the snow towards the shelter of the forest. Some- 
times, almost spent, he paused ; but soon, doggedly, 
onward he struggled. Whatever menace the forest 
might hold, to gain the obscurity of the wood, to be 
lost in its dense defiles — this was his only chance 
for life; behind, death pursued him. At length he 
gained the brooding shelter of the firs : his goal was 
reached! Stumbling, he fell, and lay motionless, a 
dark blot upon the glimmering snow. 

But he dared not rest. In spite of tingling feet, 
and aching hands, and a numbness at his heart, he 
dared not rest. He must go on. He must, with 
all his remaining strength, fight the drowsiness steal- 

lOI 



King of the Air 



ing over him. He must forget his pain, and his 
hunger, and keep moving, moving, as long as he was 
able. And afterwards? — He fingered the thing in 
his belt and cursed again. 

On, on he toiled, down the long avenues of fir 
and hemlock — hungry, weary, bitten to the quick 
with cold, his feet blistered, his hands cracked and 
bleeding, — on, on, through the long night. Some- 
times he prayed, " Jesu, Son of Mary, give me one 
more chance to live! " Sometimes he cursed, *' The 
Hell-dogs, hounding me like a wolf! " 

He shivered, his teeth chattered, his brain reeled. 
Suddenly something pricked his deadened senses. 
Down a long, straight pathway of fir shone a tiny 
speck of yellow light. For an instant it vanished, 
then flickered again, beckoning. Energy returned 
to the man. Eagerly he strode forward, until in a 
little clearing he saw the outlines of a wood-cutter's 
house. It was a small, rough cottage, but through 
its narrow window gleamed welcoming fire-light. 

" Life! " the man whispered. His teeth gleamed 
wolfishly, and he grasped tightly the thing in his 
belt. 

Creeping stealthily nearer, he peered through the 
window. Within, a night-fire on the hearth burned 
merrily. Flecks of shadow and gleams of fire-light 
danced and played and chased each other through 
the little room, quivering upon the rough board 
table with its mugs and jugs and loaf of black 
bread ; leaping along the pewter pots on the shelf 
above the fire-place; flickering along great strips of 
pork and bacon hanging high from blackened 

1 02 



King of the Air 



rafters; and pausing at last to tremble softly upon 
the checkered counterpane of a rude bed, which 
covered two sleeping figures. 

The watcher without grinned, and clutched close 
the thing in his belt. He felt the casement — it 
opened to his hand. Life w^as his ! With a savage 
gesture he drew from his belt a long, glittering 
knife. His hand was on the sill. . . . 

A sound arrested him — a soft gurgling cry. 
The man peered and blinked, striving to pierce the 
shadows. In the dimness of a distant corner he 
made out a cradle rudely carved, and within the 
cradle, a little child, with chubby fists outstretched, 
smiling in its sleep. But this was not all! At the 
foot of the cradle, glistening with bright beads and 
berries and silvery bells, stood a tiny Christmas tree. 
And peeping through the topmost branches of the 
little tree, the image of the Christ Child smiled 
down serenely — smiled down upon the hearth-fire 
burning merrily, and upon the baby laughing in its 
sleep, and upon the checkered counterpane, and upon 
the wolfish figure crouching in the window; while 
all the time the ornaments of the tiny Christmas 
tree twinkled and nodded and blinked. The eyes 
of the outlaw smarted with strange tears. Softly 
he closed the casement and drew back into the night. 
With an oath he flung his knife far out into the 
snow. 

But the man did not leave the window. With 
his face pressed close against the pane, thirstily he 
drank in the quiet home-scene. Gradually he no 
longer saw the child, or the cradle, or anything at 
all in the room except the wonderful little Christ- 
103 



King of the Air 



mas tree. With all his soul he saw the little Christ- 
mas tree! But other things looked different. He 
saw a beautiful young woman sitting before the fire, 
and strangely, he was able to feel her soft arms 
round him, and her kisses on his cheek, and to hear 
her voice whispering ** little son," and his own voice 
answering '' little mother," in tones grown wonder- 
fully young and sweet; while right beside him, 
within reach of his hand, sparkled and twinkled the 
marvelous little Christmas tree! 

Long the man knelt upon the snow, in the bitter 
cold, seeing these strange things. Very quietly he 
lingered there. Perhaps he slept. Perhaps that 
was the reason he did not move, or cry out, or flee 
away, when from the heart of the dim forest rang 
out that wild cry — the baying of the wolves. The 
baying of the wolves! He had feared it before. 
Surely now he would spring up and knock on the 
window for help! Surely those within would 
shelter and protect the poor outcast! 

But he did not stir. One by one, grey shadows, 
like the shadows of the clouds, crept closer, closer, 
circled about him, sniffed at him, snarled and 
snapped at him. . . . 

Long after, the clouds uncovered the sky, and 
the moon flooded, with cold, clear light, the still 
forest, the quiet steppe. But no living thing was 
visible : the heart of the forest still held its secrets. — 
Inside the wood-cutter's warm cottage the kindly 
hearth-fire glowed and the baby smiled in its sleep ; 
outside, the cold moonbeams flickered upon a bit of 
steel half buried in the snow. 



December, igio, Ardmore, Pa. 
104 



THE MOOR-BIRDS 

In a little circle of the moors, sheltered on all 
sides from the furious gales of winter, inland, and 
far from the wide reaches of the sea, nestled a tiny 
cabin. Its walls were all aslant from the stress 
of many storms; its deeply-scarred roof seemed 
about to slide off upon the ground ; the whole cabin 
swayed and quivered when the breezes played upon 
ft. But rude, dilapidated though it was, still it 
hung together, year after year, a blot of gleaming 
silver against the dusky moors. At its worn door- 
step crimson swamxp-lilies raised their stately heads 
in summer, while all about, masses of elderberry, 
sweet-fern and wild-rose bloom ran riot over the 
moors, scenting the air. And the voice of the un- 
seen sea was never silent, softly whispering upon the 
summer breezes, thundering along the lonely coasts 
in the winter hurricanes. 

One summer evening a woman stood in the door- 
way of the cabin shading her eyes from the rays 
of the setting sun. She wore a short dress of brown 
homespun, and a white cloth bound about her head. 
Her bare legs and arms shone with a deeper bronze 
than comes from sun and wind. Swiftly her black 
105 



King of the Air 



eyes glanced from the western sky to the moors 
in the east. The air was soft, without a breath, 
the sky blue and cloudless ; yet the sea held a menace 
in its tones. Filmy mist-wreaths, drifting in from 
the east, were beginning to curl and twine about the 
bosom of the moorland, creeping stealthily nearer 
and nearer, stretching out long white fingers into 
the sunset, blotting out the rise of purple hills 
beyond. Long and keenly the woman scanned the 
moors, the sky. Suddenly she stepped into the 
open and laid her ear to the ground. Then, with 
a short, guttural note of satisfaction she entered the 
cabin. A thin black thread from the broken 
chimney curled into the sky. 

On and on the sea-mists crept, thickening the air, 
crawling down into the curves and hollows of the 
hills, spreading in a lacy coverlet over the low-lying 
bogs and marsh-lands, and joining at last in one un- 
broken mass of fog that settled heavy and close 
about the house. Presently in the distance sounded 
the music of sheep-bells, tinkling over the misty 
moors. The woman came to the door; the grey 
haze lay against her face like a blanket. She 
whistled sweet and shrill between her fingers, a few 
short, wild notes. Immediately she was answered 
on all sides by many bird-voices, that warbled mer- 
rily, mingling with the tinkle of approaching sheep- 
bells. One by one a little flock of shaggy sheep and 
goats filed into the sheep-fold before the house. 
Two small figures drifted out of the fog, their 
brown faces wet and glistening. 

" You are late tonight, little sheep," said the 
woman. 

1 06 



King of the Air 



" The way was long and the fog thick, little 
mother. We might have passed the night in the 
mist if our moor-birds had not guided us home! " 

" The bird-folk are always wise and kind. — Eat, 
now, for the night of fog is dark, and we have no 
light but the hearth-fire." 

The youngsters fell to eating, jostling and push- 
ing each other in boy fashion. After supper they 
curled up on sheepskins before the flickering hearth- 
fire. Their mother, squatting beside them, told 
them stories of the days when many an Indian ham- 
let flourished on the island ; and of Indian Big Jim, 
their father; and of how one night he was found 
dead at his own door-step, a bullet through his 
heart. They had buried him deep beside his little 
home-stead, and now crimson lilies flamed upon his 
grave. 

" Some day, little mother, I will kill the man who 
killed my father! " spoke up the elder of the boys. 

" Yes, little sheep, when the time is ripe, and thou 
art a man." 

The group fell silent, watching the ruddy glow 
of the dying fire, listening to the wind that whis- 
pered through the tall red lilies on the dead man's 
grave, and to the sea that echoed mournfully across 
the misty moors. 

So passed peaceful days for the little Indian 
family. The boys would spend long hours in the 
open, pasturing their flock, caressed by sweet salt 
airs that were warm and spicy with summer sun- 
light. They loved the moorland with its glowing 

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King of the Air 



carpet of flowers. They loved the singing of the 
moor-birds, and the eternal music of waves on the 
distant shore. Sometimes from the summit of a hill 
they could discern the faint shadow of a sail on the 
blue sea. Then they would fall to wondering about 
the great world, and would dream of sailing away 
in ships of their own when they should be grown. 
One day there came jolting over the rough 
moor-road in a calash, a stranger from the distant 
town. The " Town Council " had decreed, he said, 
that the sons of Indian Big Jim must have school- 
ing during the coming winter season. He was a 
Quaker, a kindly man, and he offered to take the 
boys into his own home. The mother could visit 
them from time to time, he said, and in the spring 
they would return to her. — So the matter was ar- 
ranged. 

Across the rolling moors, in the slanting Septem- 
ber sunlight, two little figures walked hand-in-hand 
together. The sedges and cat-tails about the blue 
pools nestling in the hollows of the hills, nodded 
together; the ruddy fruit of the wild cranberry 
glistened in the sun; the mxany plants and wild- 
flowers, which even at this late season showed no 
shadow of decay, mingled their bright colors with 
the softer tints of the moors. The heather was 
deep and springy under-foot, and the air was heavy 
with the perfume of sun-dried sweet-fern and 
sassafras. A little breeze from over the hill bore 
in its wake the smell of the sea, and from the top 
of the hill they could see the sea itself encircling 
the coast in purple majesty. It was one of those 
clear, drowsy days on the island, when the waves 
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King of the Air 



crawl lazily over the shimmering sands, and nature 
seems to dream. 

Silently, without words or tears, the children 
were bidding goodbye to their moors. For the last 
time they were drinking in the warm fragrance of 
the soft moor air; they were taking their last look 
at the mysterious sea, with its gossamer sails drifting 
afar. This was their hour. In a little while they 
would trudge behind the tinkling sheep-bells home, 
where their mother was waiting, and their father, 
in his quiet green grave. 

It was bleak November. The Indian children 
were at school in the town; but they hated the 
strange ways of white-folk. Although the Quaker 
family treated them kindly, they would steal away 
to their little room under the eaves to talk in 
whispers of their mother, and of their sheep, and 
of the little cabin in the lonely moorland. They 
would not play with other children ; they grew thin 
and listless. 

One day they resolved to run away. Secretly, 
at dusk, they stole out of the town, and took the 
moor- road that stretched, bleak and desolate, across 
the island. The dusky moors were glimmering with 
autumn reds and browns, and the air was crisp 
with a delicate touch of frost. The children 
shivered as they hurried along. They hoped, by fol- 
lowing the moor-road, to reach their cabin in a few 
hours. And then — the joy of home and their 
mother's arms! 

The round white moon, smiling down upon the 
childish figures, began to shine brightly, pointing the 

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King of the Air 



way. The sky was cloudless and serene. The only 
sound through the frosty air was the sighing of the 
lonely sea. The road stretched fair and plain be- 

The Indian woman sat on her doorstep, watching 
fore them, and all was well. 

the sunset fade, and the purple shadows creep over 
the moors, and the white moon begin to shimmer 
in the clear sky. It was a quiet evening. The 
woman was smoking her pipe and thinking of her 
little ones. She was very lonely. She was plan- 
ning how she could sell her little stock of sheep 
and goats, and join her boys in the town before the 
winter season closed down. 

The brown grasses and tall dead lily-stalks on the 
grave of Indian Big Jim began to rustle softly. 
The shimmering moon grew vague and nebulous. 
Deeper shadows came creeping across the darken- 
ing m.oors, a gloom fell upon the world. It was 
the fog! The woman shivered, and pulling her 
ragged shawl across her breast, went inside the 
cabin and shut the door. Thicker and colder grew 
the air; a trembling whiteness filled the night. 
No man could see his hand before his face ; no child 
could trace a faint moor-track through the im- 
penetrable brightness. 

For three days and nights the fog hung heavy 
over land and sea. The sheep in the little fold 
bleated piteously; the moor-birds twittered plain- 
tively. All day long the moors rang with the 
booming of great waves on invisible shores. The 
mother's heart ached ; she lay awake at night ; she 
spent hours staring into the smothering veil of mist. 

no 



King of the Air 



One morning she awoke early. The moor-birds 
were singing as though their throats would burst. 
The sunlight was streaming into the house. It was 
very cold. The woman opened the door; before 
her stretched the line of purple hills, sharp and bril- 
liant in the sunrise. The moor-birds kept singing; 
they flocked to her door. She threw them crumbs, 
but they fluttered away, looking back at her and 
calling. 

"To-wee! to-wee! to-wee-e-e!" cried the little 
brown birds. They fluttered a few paces away, 
watching her with keen, bright eyes. "To-wee! 
to-wee! come with me! " they seemed to say. 

The woman understood. She followed the birds 
up through the curving moor-slopes towards the sun- 
rise. Not far away she found them — her little 
ones — lying beside a pool, where dry, dead cat- 
tails crackled in the chill wind. The children were 
cold. It was hard to unloose their arms, which 
encircled one another. The woman raised the small 
figures in her strong arms; she bore them upon her 
bosom, down into the circle of sheltering hills, 
home. She laid the little bodies upon the soft 
sheep-skins beside the hearth-fire. She chafed their 
hands and feet. From a cupboard she took a small 
bottle of liquor which she poured between their cold 
lips. Then she lay down beside them, holding them 
close to her warm breast. 

An hour passed. Then two pairs of arms were 
raised, feebly, to embrace her; two little voices 
whispered " mother! " 

Outside the cabin, in the brilliant autumn sun- 
shine, the moor-birds were singing a joyous song. 

Siasconset, Mass., July, igi2. 



FRANCE TO THE RESCUE 

(A True Story of the Sea) 

Our ship was the Touraine, bound from New 
York to Havre. On Thursday, October gth, 1913, 
we were in mid-ocean. A strong wind had risen the 
day before, and increasing in fury during the night, 
now blew with the force of a hurricane. But the 
sky was blue and bright, the air cool and clear. 
In the clouds of spray that dashed upward from the 
ship's bows, rainbows gleamed and sparkled. It 
was a glorious day! 

Suddenly our ship changed her course. She 
veered to the north, so falling into the very trough 
of the sea. Heaving and plunging, rolling and 
pitching, at the top of her speed she rushed along. 
For there had come a wireless message from the 
Carmania that the Volturno, two hundred miles 
away, was on fire and calling for help. 

Two hundred miles away! Almost a day's 
journey. From eight o'clock that morning until 
ten at night the Touraine ploughed her way through 
great waves that threatened every instant to engulf 
her. Her every fibre throbbed and trembled with 
the terrific pounding of her engines. With a de- 
112 



King of the Air 



cided " lean " to port, and a heavy cargo, she would 
lurch over to her left side, lie like lead in the hollov7 
of the weaves w^ith water sweeping her rails, and 
after an awful moment of uncertainty flounder pain- 
fully back to starboard. But she is a good ship and 
a steady, or she would never have brought us safe 
to the end of that wild journey. A stranger ship, 
seemingly risen from the sea, for a few hours rode 
by our side, bent on the same rescuing errand. It 
was a gallant race, this race with death. But the 
goal was far, and the Volturno, prey of raging fire, 
sport of furious gales — God pity the Volturno! 

All day the Touraine toiled along, fighting wind 
and waves, pulsing, quivering, straining from stem 
to stern, but never faltering for a moment in her 
straight, sure course. And all day the bright sun 
shone, the mad wind sang, and a thousand brilliant 
colors glittered in the wild sea. But as evening 
fell the sky became overcast; thick clouds hid the 
moon ; wind howled in the rigging ; spray drenched 
the decks. Out in the dark, monster waves leaped 
and roared about the ship like living things. It 
was an awful night! 

Toward nine o'clock it was reported that we ap- 
proached the VoltuTno and then, as the decks for- 
ward were unsafe, we were allowed to mount the 
Captain's bridge. From here we could see, low 
down on the horizon, a red mist, a nebula of fire. 
Out of the dark it seemed to be coming toward us, 
slowly growing larger and brighter, lighting up the 
sky. All at once there came a great red flare: 
there had been a trem.endous explosion on the 
Volturno! Was this the end, and after her noble 
effort, was our good ship to arrive too late ? 
113 



King of the Air 



An hour after we had sighted the Volturno, we 
were standing by. It was a dark night; but by her 
own light — for she was still burning — we could 
plainly see the ravaged vessel, a mass of leaping 
flames fanned fiercely by the pitiless blast. All 
about her, in the form of a half moon, lay a fleet 
of great vessels brilliantly lighted, their lofty sterns 
heaving high in the air, their mighty bows plunging 
deep into the sea. They were watching and wait- 
ing, powerless to aid the doomed ship in the grip 
of the merciless gale. Low down on the water we 
could see tiny flashes of red and blue: life-boats 
signalling to parent ships; while majestically ranged 
back and forth a leviathan of the ocean, the Car- 
mania, with her powerful searchlight making a safe 
pathway for the little boats. Sometimes the full 
moon, breaking through the pack of clouds, il- 
lumined the scene with weird splendor, and showed 
that what had seemed at first an indistinct, glim- 
mering mass on the poop of the Volturno, was in 
reality a crowd of struggling human beings. The 
six hundred passengers of the Volturno were still 
on board! 

This noble fleet, with its splendid illumination, 
heaving up and down; In its midst the fiery ship, 
scarlet against the black sky; the clouds of drift- 
ing smoke, filling the air with a smell of burning; 
the fantastic mingling of moonlight and firelight; 
the stinging of the salt wind in our faces; the sud- 
den warning whistle, as one vessel drifted too near 
another; and, over all, the roar of the storm, united 
in an Impression terrific and never to be forgotten. 

We did not know then that some of the Volturno' s 
life-boats had been smashed like egg-shells In the 
114 



King of the Air 



launching, and many lives lost. But our Captain 
knew, and he said to his men, " I cannot order you 
to man the boats and go out to the Volturno. It is 
more than risk. It is almost certain death. I do 
not command you — I ask for volunteers! " 

Forty men responded. Instantly preparations 
were made to lower a boat. For a moment the 
small craft hung face to face with us, manned by a 
silent company. What must have been the feel- 
ings of those men, swinging high above that seeth- 
ing flood! But they gave no sign. At the Cap- 
tain's signal, slowly the little boat began its perilous 
descent, the great ship reeling this way and that. 
If ever souls prayed with intense desire, we prayed 
God for those lives that night. At first the life- 
boat swung safely outward and downward, then, at 
a sudden lunge of the ship, fell crashing against 
her side. There were wild shouts as the men 
fought desperately with poles; there was a roar of 
leaping water and churning foam; at last the 
Touraine, with a long shudder, staggered back, and 
the life-boat, bow downward, dived like a bird into 
the sea and w^as borne away on the crest of a wave. 
A speck of yellow light gleamed out of the dark- 
ness: she was safe! Then we who had been lean- 
ing far over the ship's side, watching, with nerves 
tense, this wild drama of the sea, burst into cries 
and sobs, while shouts of "Bravo!" "Bravo!" 
drowned even the noise of the storm. 

We were slowly manceuvering up and down, 
trying to remain near our small boats, when all at 
once something happened which froze our blood. 
Just as we were crossing the wake of the Minne- 



115 



King of the Air 



apolisj suddenly, without warning, the big steam- 
ship began to move backward, thrashing the water 
with her powerful screw. Instantly our Captain 
blew his whistle and checked his course. But the 
Minneapolis, her giant stern towering above us, her 
mighty propeller whizzing in the air, backed surely 
and steadily upon us, as though to cut us in two. 
Those who know the Touraine will never forget 
her siren-whistle. Now it pierced the dark with 
an agonized shriek. But the other paid no heed. 

So far the events of this night had seemed 
grotesque and fantastic, like images in a bad dream. 
Now, with the backward march of the Minneapolis 
and our own imminent peril, there came a sudden 
revelation of the reality of this horrible experience. 
It seemed that there was to be a second tragedy. 

Nearer and nearer came the great steamship, her 
mighty poop with its murderous shaft now rearing 
aloft, now plunging downward with terrible 
momentum. We could see the horror-stricken 
faces of those who crowded her decks, we could 
hear the grinding of her propeller — she was upon 
us! Frantically she struggled: she lashed the sea, 
throwing out masses of hissing steam; she roared 
in her wild efforts. Wind and sea were against 
her, driving her back. But somehow, not fifty feet 
away, she stopped. Gradually she gained headway, 
until at last she was gone, in a cloud of steam and 
spray. It was a miraculous escape. 

We had launched two other life-boats, and now, 
as there had been no sign of them for several hours, 
we began burning torches of colored fire, blue, white 
and red. Soon we saw a small boat coming along 

ii6 



King of the Air 



at furious speed, driven by the blast. Now she 
swung high on the crest of a wave, now she was 
lost to view in the sweep of the seas. Somebody 
called out '' Combien? " Faintly came the answer: 
" Trois." A dozen men had risked death to save 
three ! 

But the danger to those brave sailors was not 
yet past, and the poor fellows, with bodies stiff and 
fingers frozen, were again driven to a hand-to-hand 
fight with the ship, staving off with poles and oars 
whenever a great roller hurled them against the ves- 
sel's side. Clear above the noise of seething waters 
sounded the cries: "En has!" — "En hautl" — 
" En arriere! " A rope ladder was lowered, and 
the wretched castaways were dragged up, scarcely 
able to help themselves. A wave reached after one 
as he was hanging in mid-air, nearly carrying him 
away. 

Our sailors told of the horrors on the Voliurno, 
seen at close range; the difficulties of approach, be- 
cause of the intense heat, the suffocating smoke, and 
the danger of being sucked under her stern and cut 
to pieces by her screw. They described the tumult 
among the terrified passengers, who, scorched by the 
fire, were yet afraid to jump into the ocean to be 
saved. A few who had jumped overboard were 
picked up; one man, leaping into the boat, had 
broken his legs. 

All through the night the v/ork of rescue con- 
tinued. The first life-boat started off again with 
a fresh crew. The second boat returned with seven 
saved. Once the crew of a strange life-boat came 
aboard with their half-dead passengers, and from 

117 



King of the Air 



cold and exhaustion were obliged to remain. Some- 
times, through utter weariness, our men were forced 
to rest for a while before going back to their task. 
And all night long the Volturno burned fiercely in 
the howling gale. 

In the cold dawn one of our boats brought in a 
load of children. Some were lifted to the decks 
by ropes fastened about their limp little figures; a 
baby was drawn up in a basket. Eager hands wel- 
comed them. A miserable little band they were, 
crying piteously for their mothers and refusing to be 
comforted. 

With the coming of daybreak the storm abated. 
The ocean .was still extremely dangerous, but the 
difficulties were less because of the daylight. The 
arrival of the Narj-agansett with her cargo of oil, 
which she poured generously upon the waves, 
facilitated the work of rescue. By ten o'clock every 
soul had been taken off the Volturno; there was 
nothing more to be done. For a little while the 
ships rested quietly upon the sea, all headed to- 
ward the derelict; then as if at a common signal 
each turned about and went her way. A strange, 
impressive sight, the dissolving of this great fleet 
brought together in mighty conclave for humanity's 
sake. Soon the Volturno, still fiercely burning, was 
but a cloud on the far horizon. So we left her, the 
sport of the airs of heaven, the plaything of the sea. 

Praise without stint is due all those ships who so 
generously answered the Volturno's call, who so 
unselfishly toiled through that terrible day and still 
more terrible night: to the Seidlitz, whose boats 
were in the sea when those of other ships standing 



ii8 



King of the Air 



by feared to venture into the boiling waters; to the 
Grosser Kurfurst, the Czar, the Carmania, the 
Devonian, the Minneapolis, the Narragansett, the 
Rappahanock, the Kroonland: noble ships all. But 
for the Touraine every witness to her gallant con- 
duct must wish to speak a special word. Honor 
to the brave commander of the Touraine, and to the 
other officers who so daringly braved the strong sea ; 
honor to those forty sailors, rough men but true of 
heart, who answered so readily their Captain's call 
for volunteers; honor to the Touraine, the last — 
through no fault of her own — to come to the rescue 
of the Volturno, yet the first to save a large number 
of her passengers; honor to the French people, who 
in that terrible test gave the world an example of 
heroism so splendid. 



January, 1914, Paris, 



119 



■■iHlt. 



